“Those home invaders weren’t neighbors, though, right?”
“Not technically,” she admitted. The leader of the gang had been a Seattle mobster. Not a neighbor, per se, but close enough. “Let’s not talk about that, Mark.”
He gave her a rueful look. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”
Strictly speaking, she’d been the one to dredge up the wretched past, but watching Mark’s expression of contrition was too much fun. She placed a hand on his cheek. “That’s all right, Mark. You can always make it up to me.”
His face lit up with a goofy grin. “That’s more like it. Anything you want, babe.”
She grimaced. “First off, don’t call me babe. I hate it. Second, you can start by driving me to school. We’re going to be late.”
“What happened to your car?”
“Being serviced. Engine trouble.” In actual fact she’d scratched the paint by hitting the mailbox last night, but she wasn’t going to give Mark a reason to mock her driving skills.
Dad had bought her the car because school was now a respectable distance from her house, owing to the fact that she’d opted to stay in the same school as before, when they were still living in Medina. Seeing as she only had one more year of high school to go, it would have been a shame to switch schools like her little brother had done. One more year and she was off to college—the same university where her dad taught: the University of Washington, also known as U-Dub.
“So have you thought about filling out that college application?” she asked Mark as he eased the car away from the curb.
“Um…”
She rolled her eyes. “Mark! You promised!”
“The thing is… my dad keeps talking retirement. I don’t want to let the old man down.”
“Your dad has been talking retirement since he took over from his dad.” She tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “You know you’ll be able to take that company and launch it into the stratosphere if you get an economics degree, right? My dad explained all that to you.”
“I know, babe. It’s just that… my grades just aren’t that great.”
She knew what he meant. Mark was a sweetheart, and a great athlete. What he wasn’t was academically gifted. “I’m sure with a little help from me and my dad you’ll do just fine. Remember, you don’t have to graduate at the top of your class, Mark. You just have to graduate, period.”
He emitted a noncommittal sound, then focused on the road. She gritted her teeth in disappointment. He was going to take his dad’s advice and take over the lumber mill, wasn’t he? Who needs a college education when you’ve got a perfectly good job waiting for you? And his dad had been talking retirement mainly because the Seattle weather was wreaking havoc on his arthritic joints and he was dreaming of becoming a snowbird.
What she didn’t want to admit was the real reason she wanted Mark to join her at UW: the fact that she feared drifting apart if he were to join his family company while she became a college student. She punched his shoulder.
“Ow! What did you do that for?” he said.
She punched his shoulder again, harder this time.
“Hey! That’s my good arm. I need that arm.”
She gave him another few light punches.
“You punch like a girl,” he chuckled.
“That’s probably because I am a girl.”
He gave her a quick sideways glance. “Are you all right?”
She did the eye roll thing again. “What do you think?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Is it that time of the month again?”
She raised her fist to give him her biggest punch yet but by now he was laughing so hard she decided not to bother. “You know what, Mark? If you don’t want to go to college with me just say so. Don’t give me this lame excuse of your dad says this and your dad says that.”
“But my dad really says all those things!”
“Ugh,” she said, and settled down in her seat, her arms folded across her chest.
“I want to go to college with you, babe,” he said finally. “It’s just that… I don’t think I’m smart enough, okay?”
She looked up, surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“Your dad—he’s like, a genius, okay? But every time he talks shop, my eyes glaze over. I don’t understand a word he’s saying! So I figure four years of that is going to kill me—if I ever make it that far in the first place. I’m not college material, babe—I’m just not!”
She was touched by the vulnerability he displayed. It was a side of him he rarely showed. “I’m sure that with a little tutoring from my dad—”
“But that’s just it. I listen to the guy and I blank out. Completely! It’s like listening to Coach Martin when he’s trying to introduce a new running play. I’m not smart that way. I need to see something with my own eyes—go through the motions a couple times before I get it. And this economics gobbledygook is just… gobbledygook!”
She grinned. She got it now, and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Just follow my lead and you’ll make it through four years of gobbledygook just fine.” Now that she knew what ailed him, she knew exactly what to do about it, too.
He gave her a curious glance. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“You’ve got some kind of plan, don’t you?”
“Of course I’ve got a plan. Never go through life without a plan. Isn’t that what I keep telling you?”
He gave her a lost-puppy look. “Uh-huh,” he said tentatively.
She patted his shoulder again. “I’ve got this,” she assured him.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he murmured.
Chapter Three
As Tom drove the family Toyota Sienna out of the driveway he stared so hard at the moving van he almost clipped the mailbox.
“Watch out!” Dee cried.
He stomped on the brake and the car screeched to a standstill. “I wonder who they are,” he said as he eased the car into reverse and backed up. “First thing tonight let’s go over and introduce ourselves.” Already he was painting a mental picture of their new neighbor. A professor, just like himself—possibly in a less technical field. Archeology? Or something really cool like robotics or artificial intelligence? They could chat over the hedge—exchange ideas while their wives socialized over preprandial martinis on the patio. Or he could show his new neighbor his newly acquired collection of model trains and tracks.
In his mind’s eye he was already picturing himself and this kindly man who was a few years his senior rolling up their collective sleeves and constructing a train track in their combined backyards, just like Walt Disney did back in the day. Wouldn’t that be something?
“Do you want me to drive, honey?” asked his wife, giving him a worried look.
“Mh? Oh, no, I’m fine. Just wondering… Do people still bring over a freshly baked pie? Or is that too old-fashioned?”
“We can bring a pie,” said Dee. “Or a bottle of wine. Just not sure if they’re…”
“The pie-eating or the wine-drinking kind of people,” Tom finished the sentence. “Gotcha. Probably we should—”
“—spy out who they are before we commit ourselves to one or the other.”
Now they were both staring, as Tom drove the car at a snail’s pace past the neighboring house.
“I don’t see anyone,” said Tom. “Maybe they sent the movers ahead of them.”
“Or maybe it’s Brad Pitt and he’ll move in under the cloak of darkness and we’ll never get to see him as he’ll be coming and going through a secret passageway in the basement.”
Tom gave his wife a curious look. “Brad Pitt? Really?”
“I wouldn’t mind if Angelina Jolie moved in so you can’t mind if Brad Pitt moves in.”
“You do know that Brangelina is no more, right?”
“Of course I know. Brad is single now,” she said with a touch of wistfulness.
They stared some more. ”I just hope they’re nice people,” said Tom. With a keen interest in model trains who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty while laying track.
“And I hope they have a boy Scott’s age and a girl Maya’s age and the kids can bond.”
“Don’t forget a dog who’s Ralph’s age and a baby Jacob’s age.”
He touched his foot down on the accelerator and soon they were cruising through the neighborhood, which consisted entirely of similar houses to their own. After last year’s home invasion, the Kelly family mantra was not to stand out, and stand out they definitely did not. They drove a nice sensible family car, occupied a nice sensible single-family home, and lived a nice sensible family life. Nothing to see here, folks. Move right along!
After he’d dropped off his wife at the art gallery, Tom proceeded towards his own place of business, the university he called his home away from home. Breezing into his office, he plunked down his floppy brown leather satchel, drew a hand through his floppy brown hair and dropped down in his swivel chair, booting up his computer as he did. Before he had a chance to check his schedule, a knock on the door alerted him of his first visitor.
“Come in!” he boomed.
The door opened and a head poked in. The head was pale and festooned with red spots, the few remaining hairs on the top awkwardly combed to cover the acreage.
“Hey, Tom,” said Elliott Lusky, head of the history department.
“Elliott,” said Tom jovially. “So have you thought about my offer?”
Elliott shook his bulbous head mournfully. “No can do, I’m afraid. The wife has been nagging me to take her on one of those Alaskan cruises and she’s earmarked every last penny in our savings account for that particular purpose. Terribly inconvenient, I know.”
Tom leaned back in his chair. “Can’t you tell her you’re allergic to Alaska or something?” Ever since Tom had seen a documentary about Walt Disney’s love for model trains he’d been dreaming of building his own, smaller version of the impressive set Uncle Walt had built in his backyard in the fifties. To this end he needed allies—friends he could share his new passion with. And Elliott was just such a friend. Unfortunately the tubby little man was displaying an awful lot of sales resistance.
“I’m afraid not,” said Elliott with a look of apology on his face. “She wanted to go last year. I managed to stave off the disaster by claiming Alaska was in fact part of Canada and we’d need a visa, which we’d never get as I’ve been declared persona non grata in Canuck country ever since I got drunk and disorderly on a high school trip to Montreal.”
“You don’t need a visa to visit Canada.”
“I know that. The point is that Esther doesn’t—or didn’t.” He frowned. “Curse the internet. Not only does she know I lied to her about Alaska being a part of Canada, she’s starting to suspect I made up that whole thing about being arrested in Montreal.”
“Were you ever arrested in Montreal?”
Tom’s colleague rearranged his features into an appropriate expression of contrition. “No, I was not. An exceedingly nice police officer once cautioned me for jaywalking, though.”
“I don’t think that counts.”
“I don’t think so either. Anyway, as it stands she’s already booked the tickets so it looks like I’m in for it. I’ll have to traipse along while she watches humpback whales cavort in the surf or glides down one of those wretched glaciers.”
“Do people actually glide down glaciers? I would have thought that was dangerous. People have been known to tumble down a crevasse never to be seen again.”
A gleam of hope lit up the distinguished history professor’s face. But then he shook his head, the gleam extinguished. “With my luck that will never happen.” He checked his watch. “Have to run, Tom. I’ve got a class to teach on the Borgia family.” He stared before him for a moment. “They were very fond of arsenic, those Borgias. Liked to poison their husbands. And their wives. Excruciatingly painful, death by arsenic. Very effective.”
And with these words he held up his hand and withdrew, gently closing the door.
Start Reading Death in Suburbia Now
About Nic
Nic Saint is the pen name for writing couple Nick and Nicole Saint. They’ve penned novels in the romance, cat sleuth, middle grade, suspense, comedy and cozy mystery genres. Nicole has a background in accounting and Nick in political science and before being struck by the writing bug the Saints worked odd jobs around the world (including massage therapist in Mexico, gardener in Italy, restaurant manager in India, and Berlitz teacher in Belgium).
When they’re not writing they enjoy Christmas-themed Hallmark movies (whether it’s Christmas or not), all manner of pastry, comic books, a daily dose of yoga (to limber up those limbs), and spoiling their big red tomcat Tommy.
www.nicsaint.com
Also by Nic Saint
The Mysteries of Max
Purrfect Murder
Purrfectly Deadly
Purrfect Revenge
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
Purrfect Heat
Purrfect Crime
Purrfect Rivalry
Box Set 2 (Books 4-6)
Purrfect Peril
Purrfect Secret
Purrfect Alibi
Box Set 3 (Books 7-9)
Purrfect Obsession
Nora Steel
Murder Retreat
The Kellys
Murder Motel
Death in Suburbia
Emily Stone
Murder at the Art Class
Washington & Jefferson
First Shot
Alice Whitehouse
Spooky Times
Spooky Trills
Spooky End
Spooky Spells
Ghosts of London
Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place
Public Ghost Number One
Ghost Save the Queen
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
A Tale of Two Harrys
Ghost of Girlband Past
Ghostlier Things
Charleneland
Deadly Ride
Final Ride
Neighborhood Witch Committee
Witchy Start
Witchy Worries
Witchy Wishes
Saffron Diffley
Crime and Retribution
Vice and Verdict
The B-Team
Once Upon a Spy
Tate-à-Tate
Ghosts vs. Spies
The Ghost Who Came in from the Cold
Witchy Fingers
Witchy Trouble
Witchy Hexations
Witchy Possessions
Witchy Riches
Box Set 1 (Books 1-4)
The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse
One Spoonful of Trouble
Two Scoops of Murder
Three Shots of Disaster
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
A Twist of Wraith
A Touch of Ghost
A Clash of Spooks
Box Set 2 (Books 4-6)
The Stuffing of Nightmares
A Breath of Dead Air
An Act of Hodd
Box Set 3 (Books 7-9)
Standalone Novels
When in Bruges
The Whiskered Spy
ThrillFix
Homejacking
The Eighth Billionaire
The Wrong Woman
Short Stories
Felonies and Penalties (Saffron Diffley Short 1)
Purrfect Santa (Mysteries of Max Short 1)
Purrfect Christmas Mystery (Mysteries of Max Short 2)
Purrfect Christmas Miracle (Mysteries of Max Short 3)
Purrfectly Flealess (Mysteries of Max Short 4)
Copyright © 2019 by Nic Saint. All rights reserved.
Published by Puss in Print Publications.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any e
lectronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editor: Chereese Graves.